


purgatory is another form of hell

by sleep_247



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, content warning: implied suicide attempt, i have no idea how to tag this without giving away things, kinda office au maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 15:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16452752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleep_247/pseuds/sleep_247
Summary: “Keeping your senior waiting on your first day… you’re so bold, Saihara-chan!”Dressed in an immaculate checkered suit, the shorter male stands before him, twirling an ID card between his fingers:Saihara Shuichi, DR Industries, Intern,glints off the plastic surface. When Saihara makes a half-hearted attempt to grab the card, Ouma yanks it just out of his reach with a grin.





	purgatory is another form of hell

**Author's Note:**

> **content warning:** there is an implied suicide attempt, though there is no graphic description.

His first mistake, Saihara thinks, was forgetting to check that his alarm had been set the night before. It strikes him odd, because Saihara is a meticulous creature of habit. How such a crucial step to his nighttime routine completely slipped his mind befuddles him, but the teasing lilt of Ouma’s voice draws him from working through the knots in his memories. 

“Keeping your senior waiting on your first day… you’re so bold, Saihara-chan!” 

Dressed in an immaculate checkered suit, the shorter male stands before him, twirling an ID card between his fingers: _Saihara Shuichi, DR Industries, Intern,_ glints off the plastic surface. When Saihara makes a half-hearted attempt to grab the card, Ouma yanks it just out of his reach with a grin. 

“Not so fast, Saihara-chan,” the purple-haired man ( _menace,_ a small part of Saihara murmurs) chirps, “you have to rightfully earn your pass like every employee here.” 

The young man lowers his hand and frowns. “I had already acquired that right when I was accepted by the company.” 

“Ah, such _tragic_ misconceptions!” Saihara flinches from surprise when Ouma jerks back, clutching at his chest as if he had been sniped by a bullet. 

“My dear, _naive_ Saihara-chan,” the purple-haired man laments through a bout of tears, “there is a ways of a difference between an intern and a full-time employee, you know?” 

Proceeding to sling an arm over Saihara’s shoulder (and wiping his fake tears with his other hand), Ouma continues, “poor Amami-chan already had so much on his plate that I generously offered to take you— a complete greenhorn— under my wing, being the considerate senpai that I am.” 

Much of this explanation passes over Saihara’s head as he struggles under his senior’s hold, the height difference forcing the taller male to lean over to the right in an exaggerated manner. Even so, the intern doesn’t miss how Ouma slips the ID card into his back pocket— conveniently out of Saihara’s reach. 

“Yoohoo, is anybody there?” 

Sharp, purple eyes peer closely at Saihara’s face; Saihara fights down the automatic blush that creeps up to his ears. Averting his gaze, the intern nods stiffly in response, though he does softly interject,

“You must return the ID card to me at some point in the day, Ouma-kun.” 

For a moment, Saihara thinks his purple-haired senior, donned in apparel that makes him look like a walking chessboard, turns uncharacteristically solemn. Tilting his head to the side, Ouma stares at him with an indecipherable expression.

“You’re awfully in a rush to your own death, aren’t you, Saihara-chan.” 

“S-sorry?”

Then it’s back on his face again, the sugar-sweet grin that looks too practiced, as Ouma waves a hand dramatically in the air.

“But of course, my dear greenhorn! You’re so eager to dive into the long, stale hours of overwork and underpaid labor—”

Crossing his arms behind his head, the shorter man dances away on the balls of his feet, leaving Saihara to stumble from the sudden loss of contact. 

“W-wait—”

Out of nowhere, something in Saihara twists— a painful constriction in his chest that squeezes the air out of his lungs and leaves him gasping for naught. His hand reactively shoots out to grab at Ouma’s jacket, holding the smaller man in place.

“...Saihara-chan?” 

“I—” 

Bewildered by his own actions, Saihara stands stock still; his mouth opens and closes wordlessly, like a broken automaton. A muted voice in the back of his mind tells him he should be letting go, he’s making creases in what was most likely an expensive custom-tailored suit, but it’s overridden by a rising panic in his chest that screams _don’t leave—_

A soft laugh breaks through the jumbled chaos of his mind. 

“Well, well, I suppose it can’t be helped. You’re such a needy baby, aren’t you, Saihara-chan?” 

Ouma gently pries Saihara’s shaking hand from his jacket, then laces their fingers together. Giving the intern’s hand a squeeze, Ouma turns to the trembling man with a grin—

“Just for today, okay?”

 

* * *

 

For such a grand company, the building itself is empty and absent of life. There’s a niggling sense of _something_ that lurks in the back of his mind as they make their way through the long, winding corridors. Saihara wonders if it’s because of the strange scent of antiseptic that hangs in the air, or the dreary white plaster that covers the walls; the building resembles a hospital more so than a corporate office. He wonders if it’s sheer coincidence, or if it’s his anxiety talking. 

The latter seemed more likely. 

Unable to bear the silence, Saihara attempts to spark a conversation with his eccentric senior. “Is there a company-wide event today?” 

“Hmm?”

“It’s just… I don’t see the others. The other employees, I mean.” The intern pulls at his collar, unsettled. 

Ouma snickers. “What, you really want the others to see you bumbling about? Are you a masochist, Saihara-chan?” 

Saihara flushes, lips pressed tightly to a close. Honestly, what had he been expecting…?

Wordlessly, they continue walking towards whatever destination Ouma has in mind. A part of Saihara thinks he should ask where they are headed, whether it was a good decision to trust a walking checker board to guide him to his department—

A chill creeps down his spine. Come to think, what department was he a part of, anyway? He rubs his temples, trying to ease the pounding in his head. He’s not sure whether he can really blame his hazy memories as a case of nerves by this point. 

“Are you escorting Saihara-kun to the sixth floor? The way to the elevators is in the opposite direction.” 

Ouma stops abruptly in his steps; Saihara just barely manages to stop himself from colliding into the shorter man. “Speak of the devil and she appears,” Ouma remarks. 

The woman standing before them pouts slightly, hands on her hips. “That’s not very nice, Ouma-kun. I’m the messenger of Atua, not the devil.” 

“All the same to me,” Ouma replies with an exaggerated shrug. 

The woman directs her gaze at Saihara then, cerulean eyes peering at his face. It feels as if the seconds stretch into hours, the way she stares at him, unblinking. _Eerie._ Saihara finds himself rooted to the spot, cold sweat lining his palms. 

“Do you know where you’re going?” She asks him after what seems like ages. There’s a certain quality of airiness to her tone, as if she’s not all there— Saihara is beginning to wonder if this otherworldliness is a required characteristic of the employees of DR Industries. If Ouma is anything to go by….

“Uh, I—”

“Of course he knows where he’s going!” Ouma rebutts with a wide grin, pulling Saihara next to him. The man’s grip is tight around his arm; strangely enough, it is grounding. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have to get going on our way, Yonaga-chan.” 

Yonaga— at least from what Ouma refers to the eerie woman— tilts her head. 

“You should be careful, Ouma-kun. It isn’t good to defy divine order,” she intones. Something about her demeanor is off, as if it isn’t really her anymore, but something else— something not entirely _human._

Without missing a beat, Ouma splays his fingers across his chest. “Oh, believe me,” a devilish smirk makes its way across his impish face—

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t think we should be doing this, Ouma-kun….”

“Doing what exactly, Saihara-chan?” 

_God,_ Saihara thinks, _he just wants to get the day over with._ With each passing second, his headache feels worse; for all his due diligence, Saihara finds himself beginning to regret coming in to work. 

“Yonaga-san said I was supposed to head to the sixth floor,” the intern breathes, willing his frustrations not to bleed into his voice. “This isn’t the way to the elevators.” 

“Ho?” Ouma whirls around sharply; his purple locks whip dangerously close to Saihara’s face, barely missing the intern’s eye. “How daring, that our dear little greenhorn presumes to know more than his senior.” 

Saihara’s hands curl into fists. “You’ve been leading us around in circles. I wish you would at least explain things to me—” 

“That’s disappointing, Saihara-chan.” His senior cuts him off, pressing uncomfortably close to his personal space. “You’re not thinking, are you?” With a finger, he prods at Saihara’s forehead. “What’s this, an ornament? It is a pretty one, though I have no interest in empty baubles—” 

Bristling, Saihara swats away the intruding appendage. “This isn’t a joke.” 

Ouma stares at him, face carefully composed. “It was never meant to be one.” 

Saihara knows a lost cause when he sees one. Stiffly, he addresses his senior with a curt bow. “I apologize for taking up your time. I’ll manage on my own for the rest of the day.” 

“This place will swallow you whole if you’re not careful, Saihara-chan.” 

“...Thank you for your concern.” 

When he walks away from Ouma, he’s not sure why every fibre of his being screams in pain.

 

* * *

 

Hopeless. 

Saihara is hopelessly lost. 

He was sure he had merely retraced his steps, but somehow, the intern had ended up near the front doors of what appeared to be the company cafeteria. Before he has a chance to mull over the directions, a light tap on his shoulder jolts him out of his reverie.

“Won’t you be heading in?” 

The speaker is a masked man with long, straight hair. His features appear delicate, almost akin to a porcelain doll. 

“S-sorry, I...” Saihara hastily steps to the side. 

The man’s eyes crease, twin crescent moons on alabaster skin. “No need to apologize. I assume you must be the new intern.” 

Saihara nods, hesitant. “Yes. I’m Saihara Shuichi. And you are—?” 

“Shinguji. Shinguji Korekiyo.” The man gives him another eye-smile. “I’m from the seventh floor. A pleasure to meet you, Saihara-kun.” 

_He seems nice enough,_ Saihara thinks. _A far cry from Ouma…._

“If you don’t mind,” the intern starts, “would you mind directing me to the elevators? I really have to be on my way….” 

Shinguji hums lightly. “I would be glad to assist you, Saihara-kun, though I must insist you join me for lunch first.” 

“Lunch?” 

The pale man replies, voice pleasant with a hint of amusement. “It wouldn’t make much sense to head to your department when the entire company is on lunch break.” Shinguji presses his hand against the small of Saihara’s back, pushing him through the cafeteria doors. In spite of his thin arms, there is a wiry strength behind it. 

“I… I suppose you’re right.” He murmurs a quiet ‘thank you’ when Shinguji places a lunch tray into his hands. 

When Saihara extends his tray towards the kitchen staff for the day’s servings, he spots Shinguji stare at him from the corner of his eye. 

Yellow eyes rake over his body; an undercurrent of raw hunger lurks behind them. In that instant, Saihara feels akin to livestock; he suppresses an involuntary shudder, eyes flickering back to his tray. _What was that?!_ The intern wills himself to breathe, hoping Shinguji doesn’t notice the way Saihara’s lunch tray shakes slightly in his grip. 

_Just hold out until the end of lunch,_ he tries to placate himself. 

The sensation of Shinguji boring holes into his face doesn’t disappear when they finally sit at one of the empty tables to eat. 

“Is… is something wrong, Shinguji-kun?” He ventures, hesitant. 

Shinguji shakes his head slightly. “Not at all, Saihara-kun. Although, I am a little concerned about how thin you are…” The masked man places a slice of grilled beef on his rice. “I hope you won’t find my actions overbearing, as your senior.” 

Saihara stares at the meat. It would be rude if he didn’t accept his senior’s care, and he didn’t want to burn bridges from the start… 

He picks up his chopsticks. “Uhm, not at all. Thank you for your concern, Shinguji-kun.” 

Before he has a chance to bite, a hand shoots out and clamps firmly around his wrist. “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you.”

 

* * *

 

Across from him, Shinguji stiffens in his seat. His eyes narrow dangerously, like that of a predator locked onto its prey. 

“My, Hoshi-kun. What brings you to the cafeteria?” Acerbic poison coats his words. “I thought you weren’t one to socialize with the rest of the common crowd....”

The shorter man pays no heed to Shinguji. Instead, he directs his gaze at Saihara. 

“What are you doing here, kid? You’re supposed to be with Ouma.” Hoshi frowns, thick creases of stress lining his forehead.

“I…” 

The man grunts. “We’re gonna get you back where you need to be.” He doesn’t wait for Saihara to respond, pulling at his wrist instead. 

“H-hold on, Hoshi-kun—” 

Forcefully, the young intern is dragged from his seat and out of the cafeteria before he knows it. Hoshi continues to pull him up a flight of stairs, stopping before a pair of metal doors. 

“Hoshi-kun, _wait!_ ” Saihara finally manages to wrest his wrist from the man’s hold. “None of this is making sense to me. I’m— how—” The intern breaks into a nervous fit of laughter. “Just what in the world is going on…?” 

He’s not sure if the look that briefly flits over Hoshi’s face is one of pity; quite frankly, in this moment, he finds it difficult to care. 

“Place like this isn’t for you, kid,” the shorter man says firmly. 

_God, he is so tired…._ “What do you mean?” 

“Didn’t the checkered brat tell you?” At Saihara’s bewildered stare, Hoshi sighs deeply, adjusting his beanie with a hand. “Saihara, what are you here for.” 

“I’m…” Saihara hesitates. “I’m here to work.” 

Hoshi gives him a wry smile. “People don’t come here to ‘work’, kid. Haven’t you realized that by now?” 

_“This place will swallow you whole if you’re not careful, Saihara-chan.”_

With a tilt of his head, Hoshi gestures towards the doors. 

“Hurry up and get out of here while you still can.”

 

* * *

 

Past the doors, Ouma is waiting for him, perched on top of the balcony railing. The purple-haired man playfully swings his legs as he greets Saihara with a wave of his hand. 

“Took you long enough, Saihara-chan. Did you get lost without me?” 

It’s strange. For all the frustration he should be feeling, the sight of Ouma loosens the knot in his chest he didn’t know he had. 

“If you had been straightforward from the start....” 

“And where would be the fun in that?” 

Saihara hangs his head, resigned. Indeed. Maybe it would have been easier to laugh with fond exasperation, if their conversation didn’t feel so much like a final farewell. 

_But you already knew, didn’t you? All along..._

“You’re going to need this, for where you’re headed.” The smaller man reaches into his back pocket and tosses Saihara his plastic ID card. Saihara fumbles to receive it in his hands. When his fingers catch onto the plastic film starting to peel off at one of the corners, he tugs at it, half curious, half expectant—

_Saihara Shuichi, Human Rights Investigator,_ the card reads. 

The back of his throat burns. 

“You could have let me live a lie.” As he speaks, he feels his consciousness begin to fade away. “I wouldn’t have minded, if it meant being here…” _With you,_ the words remain unspoken.

 

* * *

 

When Saihara comes to, he is greeted by the watery rays of sunlight that filters through the blinds. Blearily, he rubs at his eyes, then scrabbles over the bedside cabinet for his bottle of aspirin. 

_October 29th, 20XX._

Roughly six years after the final game of Danganronpa, where Saihara, Yumeno, and Harukawa remained its sole survivors. 

Tacked onto a cork board before him are newspaper clippings and investigative reports— on Team DR, the participants, the victims and survivors—

His phone rings, and he reaches over to answer the call. 

“Are you ready to present your case?” Harukawa sounds weary, but hopeful. 

His eyes flicker to the photo of Ouma framed on his desk. 

“Let’s do this.”

 

* * *

 

_“Silly Saihara-chan,” Ouma replies, smiling. “Why would I want to do that? I don’t want to see you anytime soon._

_Because I hate you, you know?”_

**Author's Note:**

> will this be the last spoopy entry for the season?? who knows, only time will tell


End file.
